


Cantaloupe

by broblerone



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cannibalism, Gen, Gore, HOO BOY OK, Strangulation, Vomit, excessive metaphors and super gross imagery, i hope i tagged everything in this this is. wow its gross, this isnt supposed to be kinky but if you get off on this hey bonus right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 13:37:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10492050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broblerone/pseuds/broblerone
Summary: Is it possible to take comfort in your own torture?





	

You hear a hiss. This isn’t new. There’s always the sound of snakes wheezing hanging heavy in the air. You can’t remember a time when this low reverberation wasn’t tormenting you. Comforting you.

Is it possible to take comfort in your own torture?

Your hands plunge into his stomach, his flesh parting under your nails like a too-ripe peach, revealing to you his intestines, his kidneys, his bladder. The squelch of your fingers squishing in the cooling muck almost drowns out that hiss, that foreboding hiss, that murder-boy hiss, that vibrating hiss. Almost. You feel a retch pounding at your chest, at your throat, but you don’t let it through.

You have to keep going.

You bring the slop up to your mouth with your hands like the disgusting animal you are, getting his viscera all over your lips and chin, even some on your nose, and the liquid sludge rolls in gobs and rivulets down your battered arms. Your gloves are going to be ruined. He tastes mild and sweet, almost like cantaloupe, with that sickly off-lukewarm flavor and all. The kind of cantaloupe you’d find on the garnish of a plate at a restaurant, cut four days ago and placed next to your meat and grease as a half-hearted appeasement of dietary recommendations, disgusting cantaloupe, unwanted cantaloupe, the kind of cantaloupe that makes you feel guilty for not ordering a salad instead.

He kind of reminds you of that cantaloupe in general. You know you’re the piss-fingered chef that cut him up and dropped him on the plate next to your delicious filth. You know what you did to him. You swallow. Another mouthful of his innards. Another. Another. His eyes are a far cry from that firebrand red you’re so familiar with, now. His eye color didn’t change when rigor mortis set in, but they certainly turned grey.

You’re glad you started eating before he started to bloat, before he shit his pants and started to rot. You can eat his cold, tender meat—you can’t eat mold.

The hissing wraps itself around your legs. This, too, is normal. You know he won’t leave. You stopped trying decades ago. You were smaller, then, but then, you’re smaller now. You’ve never been smaller in your life, and yet he lies here, so much smaller than you, so fragile, so dead. The weight constricts around your legs. “Eat his fruit,” it says, “it belongs to you, now.”

This belongs to you, now. In this dark, murky, too-warm room, this carcass belongs to you.

You have to eat it all.

Smaller than you as he may be, you find your stomach aching after just the organs unprotected by his brittle ribcage. You don’t want to eat any more. You want to lie down, you want to sleep, you want to be let go for the night.

He isn’t letting you go.

You slip the meat off of his hand like you’re pulling a glove from his bone and swallow it whole. It dissolves in your mouth. You don’t even need to chew. His broth drips down your chin, onto your black jeans, onto the green python strangling your thighs. The hiss grows louder than the sound of your own gulping around this mouth of gore. You did this. You deserve this.

Your own blood, and you let this snake coil you into _this._

You know you don’t have long until he starts to puff up and rot away too much to eat, so you force yourself beyond the ache in your core, toward his arm. Your teeth would rip his flesh away, but you don’t need that much force—he falls off the bone and into your mouth like a perfect rack of ribs. You try to savor him, try to ignore the fact that you have to _swallow_ eventually.

Eventually, you swallow. Your body revolts. You vomit into the cavity that used to hold his digestive tract, a slurry of black rot and blood and blood—is it his or your own?—and shame. Your eyes blow wide. The hiss drowns out all previous thoughts. You weren’t supposed to vomit him back up.

The whole point of this, it says as it wraps itself around your neck, was to become one with him, to absorb him, to finally be close to him, isn’t that what you wanted, it asks, isn’t just being close to him what you wanted, and now you’re vomiting up this gracious gift, he didn’t _have_ to do this for you, he could have kept you beating him, he could have kept you distant, he could have kept you _wholly to himself—_

You choke as the blood vessels in your eyes burst under the pressure of your strangulation. _Such betrayal is unacceptable._ Your fingers and toes tingle, heat rolls down from your eyes to your chin, a dark ring creeps in and drowns the room in itself. The whole room is black, you cannot move, and yet you still feel. Your knees, hurting on the dank concrete floor, give out. You topple nose-first into your own discharge, pooled in your young’s stomach. The snake slithers away.

You know you should feel disgusting, but everything feels like it’s being covered up by a thick comforter, the one that Dave had on his bed, the one he carried around with him when he was young. Your fingers twitch as you reach out for it, but your arms are too heavy to lift off the ground. You want that blanket. You want to be covered with him, so you may both die under his comfort. Your own has left you. His will have to do. A haze tangles itself up with your brain.

The hiss fades and gives way to a thumping noise under your ear, steady, warm but not _moist_ and _suffocating_ like that _room,_ just _warm,_ like that _blanket._ A weight is settled around your shoulders, too light to be your tremendous snake, too heavy to be his puppet stand-in, but you’re too afraid to open your eyes. Your skin is sticky with sweat. That thumping continues. You hear something else.

Words.

Lower, more soothing than your noose, though you can’t make out what it’s _saying._ Fingers card through your hatless hair.

“Bro, dude, wake up.”

**Author's Note:**

> i read blowflygirl again and i wanted to write some nasty shit so heres bro having a nightmare lmao


End file.
